


The Unacknowledged Guest

by elle_stone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dominant John, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, safe sex, voyeurism kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock likes to be watched.  John likes to talk dirty.</p>
<p>(or, 10k words of rambly smut)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unacknowledged Guest

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in early 2012, not long after I entered the Sherlock fandom, in response to a prompt on the kink meme on livejournal:
> 
> "Sherlock likes having the skull watch as him and John have sex. John doesn't... " 
> 
> It was supposed to be a quick, fun thing... but the boys just wouldn't stay on topic, and so somehow it turned into 10k words of rambly, meandering sex. I don't know if that's good or bad. At any rate, I let it sit for three years (!), not really wanting to edit, not sure if I even liked it, with no idea whatsoever how to finish it, and finally dusted it off this summer and put it into (hopefully, somewhat) workable shape. I've never written anything anywhere near this smutty before and I'm sort of embarrassed by it--but I like it enough to post.
> 
> I apologize for any glaring errors. This work is un-beta-ed and not Brit-picked. Also, I'll warn one more time, it really is 10k of sex. That's all.

“You know I don’t invite _my_ friends to watch us when we—” John waves a hand between them, which is no easy task, because they’re two grown men tangled together on a slim couch, and Sherlock’s on his back with one leg wrapped awkwardly around John’s waist. John is leaning over him, weight supported now on no more than the knuckles of his right hand. “When we _this_ ,” he finishes.

“When…we…this,” Sherlock repeats slowly, drawing out each word and frowning, as if he were trying to parse John’s sentence. He knows perfectly well what John is saying and it is so _annoying_ , the way he plays dumb like that. It’s even more annoying when he presses his lips together like that and furrows his brow like that—the expression looks so moronic and with his shirt mostly off and his trousers unzipped and half shoved down his hips and his socks still on, really, all in all, he just looks so _stupid_ —

But also sort of wonderful. Wanton. Filthy.

“When we _fuck_ ,” John clarifies. He tries to make his voice sound as sinful as Sherlock looks.

Sherlock, both of his hands free, the bastard, runs his fingers frustratingly lightly down John’s chest, over the thin material of his t-shirt, over his hard nipples, sending a shiver down his spine. “We aren’t _fucking_ yet,” he answers. It’s John’s word, not Sherlock’s, and every time he says it he sounds like he’s mocking. 

The way Sherlock touches him, he has to close his eyes. There’s just no way to keep them open against that painfully light touch. Still he takes a deep breath and takes in his control, because even with his eyes closed, even with them open and focused on Sherlock, nothing but him, he can still feel it. That hollow-eyed _gaze_ on him. He can’t let this go. “I’m serious,” he insists. “How would you like it if I brought in…I don’t know, Mike Stamford to watch us when we’re together?”

“When we’re _making love_?” Sherlock clarifies, his voice a middle register between disdainful and correcting, and John steadfastly ignores the hand that’s working on his zip now, distracting as it is, to wonder at that. It’s a tad surprising. Sherlock’s never used those words either.

“Is that what you’d prefer to call it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock answers, tone unambiguous this time as he waves the question away. He’s distracted. He wants John to be distracted too, clearly, the way he’s slipping his hands up under John’s shirt, then sliding them around, touching his back and his hips, tentative and teasing touch that he knows drives John mad. It’s not the sort of thing a man can just _resist_. John’s eyelids flutter closed. He knows that the skull is on the mantel, still, watching them with those big blank eye sockets, probably grinning, in the way that all skulls look like they’re grinning, like it’s enjoying the sight of John’s arse where his unzipped trousers are starting to slip down, or the way Sherlock’s moved his leg now so that his foot is on the couch, bracing himself, allowing him to cant his hips now like some filthy whore, desperate for it—John dips his head down and starts to press wet kisses to Sherlock’s jaw and neck. He nips lightly with his teeth, slicks his tongue over Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock arches up to him, makes those low humming sounds that he knows John likes, considering now but about to lose it, like offering a challenge, and John lets his fingers splay just above Sherlock’s hip.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, low throaty raw voice that makes John want to kiss that bow of a mouth, so he does, but Sherlock is insistent, keeps whispering, “John,” in between kisses, until John turns his attention to Sherlock’s cheek and ear, the curl of his ear, his earlobe. “John, if you wanted”—and there’s so much he wants—“we could”—and oh, there is Sherlock’s hand slipped under his waistband, squeezing his right arse cheek like he owns it, and John doesn’t quite know what he’s talking about.

“Could what?”

“Invite someone,” Sherlock breathes, and seeks out John’s mouth on his mouth again.

It’s a good kiss, of course it’s a good kiss, it’s Sherlock, always so good with Sherlock, but it’s only part of John this time that’s really present. _You can’t do that_ , he’s thinking. _You can’t just—and then—kiss like this—fuck—_

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, pulling away like trying to unglue himself from that mouth, all those long limbs around him keeping him tangled and close, “wait,” he says, and “what?”

“You could invite someone,” Sherlock repeats. He says it like it’s no big deal, no big thing at all, but his eyes are twitchy and his tongue darts out after he speaks to wet his lips, so John knows he’s nervous and unsure. His own brain feels sluggish, like his blood has rushed everywhere else and abandoned the part of him that usually comprehends things. 

“You mean instead of the skull?” he asks.

“Or in addition,” Sherlock answers, awkward tilt to his head against the pillow, and a light hopeful note to his voice.

John has to pull away farther to get a better look at Sherlock’s face, to gauge him. He straightens his arms and pushes himself up, staring down at Sherlock. He’s sure his face is all scrunched up, and Sherlock’s so impossibly patient, and so still, only his fingers playing with the edge of John’s tee-shirt.

“Are you _serious_?” John asks.

“You don’t like the idea.”

“And what led you to that deduction?”

“You are using a sharp tone with me now, in marked contrast to the breathy, aroused voice you were speaking in before. You are surprised, but not pleasantly so. There is agitation in your expression and in your posture. You are no longer kissing me and you are not at all distracted by my hands, even though they are touching just above your—”

“Okay. I get it.” He feels his own tension balling up in his stomach and bracing up his spine, and he’s not sure if it comes from his surprise or simply from the awkward angles of his limbs, how the way he is holding his weight hurts his shoulder. He sighs deeply, and he lets his eyes close. He whispers, “Sherlock,” without thinking that that is what he should whisper, and swallows hard. He imagines Sherlock watching the bob of his throat, and then he shakes his head free of everything. “Here,” he says, and lowers himself down again, searching out Sherlock’s lips and more of those long and lovely kisses. Sherlock holds back. John can feel, vaguely, Sherlock pushing back at his chest, pulling his mouth away, making everything more difficult, frustratingly difficult.

“You don’t even want to talk about it,” Sherlock manages, between kisses. “You—really hate the idea. I should have—known.”

John gives up on Sherlock’s mouth and moves on to his neck, and he feels the way Sherlock’s chest rises and falls with his own deep breath in, then out.

“You don’t even like the skull. I shouldn’t have—”

“Sherlock?” John interrupts, pausing with his mouth just above Sherlock’s right nipple, just about to lick, and his eyes uptilted to meet Sherlock’s as well as he can, from his position.

“Yes, John?”

“Stop talking.”

“O-kay,” he tries to answer, but the word comes out broken, staggered, and rough, which is not surprising, John’s teeth being where they are and doing what they are doing. His own eyes are closed, but still John imagines the way Sherlock is tilting his head back, maybe biting his lip, and he does not need to see to feel the way that Sherlock is gripping his back, pressing his body up into John’s touch.

“Tell me,” John whispers, kissing patterns into Sherlock’s skin, just below his heart, “tell me,” he says, “what it is you like…about the skull…”

“Didn’t have,” Sherlock answers, and one hand is touching vaguely, strangely, at John’s shoulder and his ear, a light uncertain murmur touch, “anyone to talk to…before you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John answers. His words are blurred and slurred and he doesn’t think about that loneliness, or his own loneliness, once; he thinks about the way Sherlock’s sweat tastes when he licks his neck. “Tell me why…you want it to watch.”

Sherlock groans. The sound is low, seems to echo all the way up his body, and it sounds so filthy that all John wants, all of a sudden all that he wants, is just to fuck him senseless right now, just to be inside him. But he pushes that raw, desperate need down, and only shifts slightly for new friction, body against body. John’s mouth is just at Sherlock’s ear, now. He bites the lobe and whispers, there, “Tell me,” and Sherlock jerks up into him, the rough rumble of the command like a touch.

“I like,” he whispers, his hands ghosting across John’s back, unsure where to settle, “I like—imagining—what it sees.”

“And what is it seeing?” John asks. The question is an order, more than anything, low and certain and demanding. His right arm is squashed between their bodies and the couch but with his left, he swipes his fingers across Sherlock’s chest, finally settling to twist at his nipple. Sherlock arches up into him again, skating an edge of pleasure and pain.

He moans, and John hears in that desperate sound the word, almost hidden, “Us.”

“Us? Come now, Sherlock, you can be more specific than that.” He licks lightly, almost tickling, at the curve of Sherlock’s ear, following the thin line of its outer curve, and plays absently with the nipple still held between two fingers. Sherlock wriggles beneath him, but he’s pinned, and he makes low moaning noises, none of which form into words. “Sherlock,” John warns again, pressing light, teasing kisses across his cheek and then pulling back so that Sherlock can see the stern expression on his face. “I need more _data_ ,” he tells him.

“I think you have quite enough,” Sherlock answers brokenly, and tries to pull John down on top of him again.

“No,” John says. “Come on. Tell me.” He whispers this last, bending low over Sherlock again, mouth so close to Sherlock’s ear that he hopes he can feel the way John is smiling, the way he is coaxing. _Don’t be embarrassed_ , he’s saying. _Don’t worry about anything at all, don’t worry, don’t think, just let go_. “What does it see? Me on top of you? Does it see the possessive way you’re grabbing my arse? Does it see,” he breathes, “the way your shirt is unbuttoned and your hair is a mess—”

“My hair is never a mess,” Sherlock corrects, but his voice is ragged, and he’s pressing up against John as well as he can, shoved as he is into the corner of their sofa, awkward as the space is in which they’re rutting so urgently against each other.

“Of course not,” John agrees. He slips his hands around the back of Sherlock’s neck and directs him into a kiss, an open mouthed, tongue twisting kiss, messy and wet and teeth clicking, a loud marathon of a kiss. When he pulls back, he allows himself an extra quick kiss to Sherlock’s nose, even though it makes Sherlock frown at him.

“I don’t let anyone else do this,” Sherlock tells him.

“Do what? Kiss you on the nose? No, I don’t suppose you would.”

“No, I mean—” He pulls his lips in, transforming his mouth into a thin, barely there line. He shifts John on top of him, one hand on his hip and the other on his arse, and John’s eyes flutter closed for a moment at the feel of friction against his cock. Still, he hates the idea of looking away from Sherlock’s face for even a second. “I mean that it is _only you_.”

John has no idea what he means, not at first. He imagines his brain is too fuzzy from lust and heat; it’s hard enough to keep up with Sherlock on a good day. Then he notes the way Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to the skull and back, and “Oh,” John says, the loudest he’s spoken in a while now, because he gets it, it’s clear. “You’re showing me off, then.”

Sherlock scowls at the phrase, but doesn’t argue it, and somehow, under the circumstances, even that sour expression is endearing.

“You’re proud of me,” John continues, and yes, he thinks he’s certainly grinning now. He kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “You like the way we look together.” He kisses lower, first Sherlock’s neck, then his collarbone. “You think you’re lucky to have such a handsome man kissing you.” He licks a circle around Sherlock’s nipple. “And touching you.” He slides one hand down Sherlock’s side, slipping it between them at the last minute to palm, teasingly, at Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock’s hips jerk in a completely satisfying way into the touch. “And _fucking_ you,” John whispers.

“Arrogance is not an attractive quality, John,” Sherlock tells him, but his eyes are closed and his hips are moving, still, up into John’s touch as if of their own will.

“Really?” John asks. “But you wear it so well.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkles, but he gives no other indication that he heard John’s comment at all. “Are you,” he tries to say, instead, but his words stutter out into a sharp intake of breath as John squeezes Sherlock’s prick once, roughly, possessively, through the thin material of his pants. “Are you…going to stop teasing now?”

“Are you going to answer my question?” John smiles into the curve of Sherlock’s rib.

“What question?”

John isn’t sure if he’s being difficult or if he’s just honestly lost, his eyes closed and his head tilted back, now, exposing his pale throat and his pulse.

“The _skull_ ,” John reminds him. “You like imagining what it sees. So tell me what it sees.”

“Are you still _on_ this?” Sherlock groans.

“I’m still on _you_.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, John.”

Pinned as he is beneath John’s weight, Sherlock still manages to manoeuvre himself enough to shove his trousers and pants the rest of the way down his legs, working at the task in rushed and awkward movements as they speak, and just as John is telling him, “I’ll make you a deal,” Sherlock grabs his hand and puts it on his cock again, bare skin to bare skin this time, and somehow in the same moment they’re kissing again—John’s not sure if Sherlock pulled him down or if he leaned in. It starts so suddenly and then it is just happening. He swipes his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, swipes his thumb across the head of his cock in the same motion. Never, never in his life has he met a man more distracting than Sherlock Holmes, a man more capable than he of driving every coherent thought right out of John’s head. His arm and shoulder and neck are aching from their awkward position but even then, he’s enjoying himself too much to find it in him to pull his thoughts together to where they were a few moments before.

“You mentioned a deal?” Sherlock whispers into his mouth, and everything snaps into place again, even as their kisses continue.

“I did.”

“I’m listening.”

“Mmmf,” John answers, because it’s hard to hold a conversation while snogging, and inevitably some words will get lost in the shuffle. Sherlock starts kissing his cheek and chin and frees John’s lips enough for him to manage, “Deal is. If you tell me what you want the skull to see. I’ll do it.”

Sherlock’s considering “Hmmmm,” turns into a prolonged contented hum that would almost make John laugh, if he weren’t too busy by now kissing Sherlock’s neck, but finally he answers, “No deal. You’re already doing what I want,” and jerks his hips, sliding his cock through John’s fist, to make his point.

It’s a valid argument. As a counter-argument, John initiates a wrestling match, the first and most effective measure he can think of to get Sherlock into the proper position once more. Sherlock’s stronger than he looks and just as clever as he wants everyone to believe, but he’s at a disadvantage in his current position, and John has years of practice—going all the way back to childhood wrestling matches with Harry—in his favour. He doesn’t imagine that Sherlock and Mycroft ever wrestled. After only a short scuffle, he declares himself the winner and gets, for his troubles, Sherlock stretched out beneath him with his wrists pinned above his head, pupils dilated and breathing heavy and pulse racing, wriggling about as if this helped to do anything more than destroy the last bits of his dignity.

John does _so_ love seeing him like this.

“You are taking an unseemly amount of enjoyment from my distress,” Sherlock tells him.

“Yes,” John answers. “I am. So. Deal, then?”

Sherlock makes a series of increasingly silly faces in response, but ultimately agrees. “Fine. Deal. Now if you don’t mind,” he tries to tug his wrists free once more from John’s grip, “you’re embarrassing me in front of my friend.”

John laughs, and it feels damn good to do so, and then he lets Sherlock go. He trails his hands instead down Sherlock’s chest, careful and slow, and asks him, voice quieter and gentler this time, if still tainted by his slight smile, “What do you want?”

Sherlock grins back at him. His fingers at John’s hips start rubbing circles into the skin. He glances to the mantelpiece, and the skull that’s still sitting there, turned to watch them. John doesn’t follow Sherlock’s gaze but he can imagine the skull easily, imagine it watching them, and it’s strange how real it seems, how on display he feels.

“I want to put on a show,” Sherlock says.

“Mmmm,” John smiles, and maybe there’s a bit of a growl there too, he’s not certain. He shifts his hips, a quick buck forward because he can’t help it, a tease. “I’m going to need more to go on than that,” he tells Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs. His grip, just below John’s waist, tightens, and he’s watching the skull now more than the man on top of him. “I want it to watch us. I want it to see you…” He trails off. His voice, so low and smooth and unhurried, had tricked John into believing he was confident, but he sees now that strange and out of character nervousness that comes over Sherlock sometimes, when he has to confront his emotions, or when he jumps too quickly into a physical closeness that does not come naturally to him. He has become so used to John, used to his touch and his regard and the way he speaks when no one else can hear them, and he has taken down so many of his guards in their private moments, that John forgets all too often that this is not easy for him. He watches Sherlock carefully now. He’s blushing, a light pink sweeping over his skin, not simply exertion or arousal or want, and he won’t look John in the eye. Fingers press into skin looking for an anchor.

“I want it to see you,” Sherlock starts again. “See you…kissing me.”

“Where?” John asks quietly. “Here?” He presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheek. “Or here?” A light kiss to his forehead. “Or here?” A longer kiss to his lips, steady and sweet.

“My neck.”

John obeys, kissing first just over Sherlock’s pulse, then mouthing lightly down his collarbone, allowing his tongue to explore, to taste that slight tang of sweat, that indescribable flavour of skin. “Where else?” he murmurs into the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“My—chest,” Sherlock stutters, breath catching as John sucks at his skin. “Ugh, John, I’m aching—touch me.”

He doesn’t hesitate to comply, kissing patterns into Sherlock’s chest and stomach, and the hand that isn’t holding his own weight snaking between them to wrap his fingers around Sherlock’s prick. He lets his fingers slide down slowly. He’ll drag this out as long as he can, just wants to listen to Sherlock as he directs him, just wants to enjoy this for as long as it lasts. His own erection borders on painful but he ignores it. A little denial just makes release sweeter.

John drags his teeth against the taut skin over Sherlock’s ribs, rubs his nose lightly into the softer, fleshier hollow of his side, his hand still working up and down on Sherlock’s prick so slowly he’s surprised Sherlock’s hasn’t swatted his hand away yet and taken over the movement on his own. But all he does is squirm under John’s touch.

He moves lower, licking lines into Sherlock’s skin, kissing lightly at his stomach and then trailing, until he’s squashed into the end of the couch and his nose is just above his hand, until he’s breathing into Sherlock’s dark curls. Sherlock feels the falter in his rhythm immediately; he wriggles his hips awkwardly and moans, desperate and low, “John.”

“What does he see now?” John asks. “Your friend? Hmmm? Does he see you coming totally undone? Does he see you practically begging for me?”

“M…M’not begging,” Sherlock gasps, words lost in a gasp as John dips down unexpectedly, licking a stripe up Sherlock’s prick.

“Not yet,” John corrects.

He glances up and sees Sherlock, eyes closed, shaking his head back and forth and back and forth as if, the movement started, he’s forgotten how to stop. “Just—just do that again,” he says. “Pl—please, John.”

“Bringing out the p-word already,” John smiles. “And you said something about not begging?”

“Fuck you.”

“Other way around, I’d think. Now are you going to be good, or not?”

“You’re the one,” Sherlock answers, still breathless, “who’s not being good.” He tries to cant his hips up, but John pushes him back down with one hand.

“I love the way you look right now,” John tells him. He runs his hand up and down Sherlock’s leg, sliding his fingers across the jutting bone at his hip; up close he can see all of the secret details of this body, the ones that no one else knows. “I love the way you sound and the way you move, I love that you look such an utter mess and you don’t even care—you _want_ to be seen like this, being touched like this and _tasted_ like this,” and he punctuates the last with a light swirl of tongue across Sherlock’s tip. “So _naughty_ , Sherlock, really.”

“You’re,” Sherlock tries to say, but his voice is creaky and he swallows hard. John feels long fingers sliding through his hair, a desperate grab of fingers. “You’re talking…too much, John.”

“Mmmn,” he answers, considering, “the problem is that you’re not talking enough. The deal, Sherlock, remember? Talk to me. Tell me. If you don’t stop, I won’t stop.” He shifts again, bends down close, one hand bracing himself and the other at the base of Sherlock’s prick and his own cock terribly ignored, but that’s okay, that’s manageable; he smiles anyway. His breath is ghosting over Sherlock’s sensitive skin.

“I…mmm,” Sherlock murmurs, and John doesn’t look up at him but he can picture him, biting his lip and closing his eyes. “You look…so good, John, when you—”

John takes a moment’s pity on him and runs his lips over the head, then slips it into his mouth, just the tip.

“Yes—yes, like that. Just—take more. I love to watch you swallowing me down—”

“Then watch.”

“No talking.”

John grins, the upcurve of his lips exposing his teeth. This won’t do at all, so he forces himself to sober, to be serious. He’s a lucky man, Sherlock Holmes splayed out beneath him with his trousers and his pants pushed down past his hips and his head tilted back and his throat exposed and his face contorted into a beautiful and almost tender expression, and all of this just for him, just for John. He’s not sure what he did to deserve this, but fuck if he doesn’t want to show his appreciation.

“Yes sir,” he says, just to be defiant, and this time when he licks his lips and slips his mouth over the head of Sherlock’s dick, he keeps moving, sliding down and down until he’s taken as much as he can. He bobs shallowly, creating a hollow with his tongue underneath Sherlock’s prick for it to slide against as he moves.

“Perfect,” Sherlock whispers above him, the word barely audible in the rough gasp of his breath. John would ask him if he’s watching, but his mouth is rather occupied at the moment, and for all of his distraction Sherlock hasn’t forgotten their agreement. “You feel—perfect—John,” he manages brokenly. “You look—perfect too. The way your…” His breath shudders out, and John sets a hand against his hip, curls his fingers around the jut of the bone, to steady him. “Your lips—wrap around me. And—ffffu—and how—intent you look. Such a _sight _, John. How you—enjoy it.”__

__He does enjoy it, but he’s in no position, at the moment, to explain how much or why. It’s something about the feel of Sherlock’s skin, that light salt taste of pre-come at the tip that John laves away with his tongue just before he sinks down again, the solid thickness of it against his tongue and the inside of his cheeks and the roof of his mouth. It’s the way Sherlock touches him, too. He has a habit, John doesn’t even know if he’s aware of it, of sliding his hands along John’s shoulders, tracing the curl of his ear with shaking fingers, grabbing suddenly and sharply, never painfully, at his hair. Sherlock’s wandering hands, John calls them, in his head. Like he’s not sure where to touch or what’s okay but he needs something, some sort of anchor, against all of these sensations John is lavishing on him._ _

__“I…like it when you look up at me…too,” Sherlock continues, and John takes this as his cue to change his angle just so and flick his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He’s watching him properly now, just as he should be. “I like knowing that you’re…perfectly focused on—me—aaah _John_!” _ _

__At this last, a reaction to a particularly deep swallow down, a sucking in of his cheeks, a manoeuvre of his tongue, John pulls his mouth from Sherlock’s dick with an obscene, wet noise. He pauses to lick his tongue once more around the head, slicking off his excess spit and the pre-come beading again at the tip._ _

__“I didn’t—tell you to stop,” Sherlock says, the words not quite a whimper, but only because he cannot gather enough breath for such inflection. John just grins, and plants a loud kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh._ _

__“Thought I’d take some initiative,” he answers. “And anyway,” he adds, voice a little lower now, a conspiratorial whisper, “wouldn’t be a proper show if it ended too soon.”_ _

__He expects Sherlock will have some quick comeback to this, but he’s too boneless, too hazy, so he just gives a half-laugh, stuttering slowly into individual _ha_ ’s, and then he stretches, skin tautening over bone and stomach hollowing. John can’t help himself in the face of a sight like that. He attacks Sherlock’s stomach and sides and hips and legs with kisses, moans into flesh, runs his hands wherever they will reach. He’s glad it’s just a skull watching them. No one else should get to see his Sherlock laid out like this but him. Any visitor, fuck, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off this man and that would be a problem, a very big problem. John makes a deep, distressed noise low in his throat when Sherlock disentangles them, then slips out from under John deftly._ _

__“Get your nose out of the cushions and watch me,” he hears Sherlock command him from somewhere vaguely above, and he pulls his face up just in time to see that useless shirt slide finally off Sherlock’s shoulders and fall down to the floor. He lifts himself up to his knees with no little effort at this sight, and then falls back down on his arse and starts shoving off his own trousers. He doesn’t have any of Sherlock’s grace but he doesn’t care, couldn’t bring himself to care if the whole bloody Earth depended on it. He’s not the one on display now, anyway._ _

__“You really are an exhibitionist, aren’t you?” he asks, the words a bit awkward out of his too dry throat. John’s always found the process of undressing a rather unsexy one—great in theory, perhaps, but in the heat of the moment, clothes, at best, simply get pushed aside or pulled off or shoved off without anyone paying too much attention to them. At worst, they get in the way, and always at the most crucial moment, fabric catching in its own zip or getting caught on elbows, buttons snagging in hair. Sherlock, though, has perfected grace into some sort of science. He makes pushing off his trousers and stepping out of his pants look gorgeous._ _

__“Yes,” he answers, only when he’s finally completely naked, and then he leans over to give John a kiss. It was probably supposed to be a quick peck, but John grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and forces open his mouth with his tongue, and he turns the kiss into something prolonged and aching. He’s half hoping Sherlock and his long, bare, tempting spider limbs will fall right on top of him, but Sherlock keeps his balance frustratingly well._ _

__Sherlock pulls away just enough to whisper, “Stay right there,” against John’s lips, and then he is standing up again and sprinting off toward his room. John watches him go. Then he crumples down into the corner of the couch with a frustrated, vocal sigh. The skull is still watching him. It makes him feel disgustingly dishevelled and a little dirty, and certainly completely exposed. If Sherlock weren’t getting off on its hollow eyed gaze, John would take this opportunity to turn its face away. Not that it would matter. Sherlock would notice in a second and turn it back around. As is, John decides to take the opportunity to strip himself of the rest of his own clothes. He’s not nearly as graceful about it. His pants trip him up on their way past his feet, and he lands on his arse again just a moment before Sherlock pops back into the room._ _

__“Got the lube, and a condom,” he says, as John pulls his t-shirt up and over his head. It lands somewhere on the floor by Sherlock’s feet. In the quiet pause that follows, the sound of thin fabric hitting the floor almost no sound at all, John looks up and sees that Sherlock is staring at him, a stopped-dead-in-his-tracks, wide eyed stare. This is not the gaze of Sherlock the detective, the look he gets on his face when he’s cataloguing clues, running through deductions, making connections at that obscene, ridiculous, amazing speed. No, it isn’t like that. The look on his face now befits a lover. As if ordinary John Watson were worthy of awe._ _

__John breaks the moment with a grin. “Well, get over here, then,” he says. He’s motioning to the couch as a whole, but Sherlock sits down right on top of him, climbing onto his lap so suddenly and so completely John’s sure he must have forgotten just how tall he is, and how heavy. He makes a small _oof_ of a noise that Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge. Still there is something to be said for the feel of Sherlock straddling his thighs, or the way he presses John back against the couch, or the way he kisses him with just enough tongue, and something very much to be said for the way he slips his hand between them and grabs both John’s cock and his own, curling his long fingers around them. John’s moan is completely undignified, loud and almost a groan at the end, audible even when muffled into Sherlock’s mouth._ _

__He’s been on edge too long now, and he knows if Sherlock continues that just-so rhythm of his hand, that just-there turn of his wrist, this will be over in minutes. And he can’t be having that, certainly. He takes the moment anyway. He holds Sherlock’s head in position with one hand to the back of his neck, grip firm and possessive, and twists his tongue into the warm wet space of Sherlock’s mouth with an urgency so overwhelming that when Sherlock finally, reluctantly, pulls away, he has to gather his breath in great deep gulps._ _

__“Quite a kiss,” he says, in what he probably assumes is a light and conversational tone. His flushed cheeks and dilated pupils ruin the effect slightly._ _

__“Really?” John asks. “And what do you deduce from it?”_ _

__“Hmmm.” He makes a show of thinking, lips gathered into a pout below his nose. Then he leans in for another, sudden, quick kiss. “That you want me.”_ _

__“That’s all?”_ _

__“John,” Sherlock answers, “if I were to catalogue all of the things I observe that you want to do to me, we would be here all night.” As he speaks he runs his fingertips lightly around the curl of John’s ear, then down his neck, his touch absurdly gentle, no match at all for his tone._ _

__“Right,” John agrees. His skims his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back, enjoying his skin and the outline of his spine, the way that Sherlock’s body feels as beautiful as it looks. “Don’t want to waste time listing observations.”_ _

__“It’s not usually a waste,” Sherlock corrects, and inhales only the thinnest of sharp breaths as John’s hands grab both of his arse cheeks at once. “It’s usually quite—” John shifts his hips, and Sherlock loses his balance and falls forward, his hands now bracing himself on the couch cushions behind John’s head. “Helpful.” The word sounds mostly like slurred consonants, though, because at that moment John carefully slips one finger between Sherlock’s cheeks, and slides it down until he reaches Sherlock’s entrance. Then he stills his movements. He just waits. He circles lightly, gently, but he doesn’t even try to push in, simply teasing, simply listening to that gorgeous stutter of breath that Sherlock is trying and failing to control._ _

__“John,” he whispers. His lips are just to John’s ear, his neck in perfect licking range. But John controls himself. He pushes slightly, not hard enough to enter, and at this he is rewarded with his name again—“John”—this time a little louder, Sherlock’s voice sliding into a moan._ _

__In the distraction of bare skin, and kisses, and six feet of consulting detective straddling his lap, he’d forgotten about their agreement, their little game, but now he glances over Sherlock’s shoulder and catches sight of the skull again and it comes back. “Sherlock,” he says, in just that certain light but still commanding voice, a voice of soft but uncompromising direction, that he knows pushes Sherlock’s buttons every time, and makes him listen. “Sherlock, what do you want?”_ _

__“You know what I want,” he pants._ _

__John ignores the comment, even more the persistent complaint in Sherlock’s tone. “Do you remember that we’re not alone?” he says instead. “The skull is still there, still turned to watch us. Do you like that, Sherlock? Do you like to think of it staring at us, at you on my lap, wriggling on top of me just waiting for me to finger you open and then _fuck_ you? Is that what you want it to see? Tell me.”_ _

__“Yes.” Sherlock bows his head, the effort of straining his neck upwards too great, and tries to wriggle back onto John’s fingers, but John holds him in place with a hand placed warningly on his hip. “Yes—John—here.” He scrambles to grab the lube from where he’d dropped it on the sofa cushion next to them, not bothering to turn and actually look at what he’s doing. Long fingers wrap around the bottle and then he’s shoving it in the general direction of John’s face, as if he expected him to uncap it with his teeth. It is, however, very much a job for two hands. Still, Sherlock practically keens in frustration when John takes his hand from his hip, removes his teasing finger from between Sherlock’s cheeks._ _

__“Patience, patience,” he whispers to him, as he slicks his fingers, then tosses the bottle aside. Sherlock doesn’t say anything in response. He does kiss John’s shoulder, a surprisingly sweet and tender press of lips to skin that makes John smile. Oh, this man. He never does what John expects. It’s beautiful, and brilliant._ _

__“Here, Sherlock,” he coaxes gently, and lifts Sherlock’s chin with the backs of two fingers. “Look at me.” John’s left hand is already gliding its way down Sherlock’s back, following the same path as before but faster now, with purpose. He watches Sherlock’s face carefully. He wants to see every minute change in expression, the widening of his eyes, the intake of breath, the red of his cheeks, when John’s finger first presses carefully, slowly, against that ring of muscle. Sherlock makes a small _mmf_ of a noise as John’s finger slips in, just barely, to the first knuckle._ _

__“M-more, John, please,” he begs, in that barely-hanging-onto-dignity voice that means he’s pretending he’s not begging._ _

__“Tell me first,” John answers. “Tell me what it feels like.”_ _

__“Feels like you’re being a tease.”_ _

__“Ha ha, Sherlock, that’s the wrong way to get me to move.”_ _

__“If you don’t move, you can’t fuck me.”_ _

__Sherlock’s cheeks have turned a lovely, deep, unexpected shade of red, and John’s not sure how much of the colour is due to embarrassment, how much simply to exertion and arousal, but he intends to enjoy looking at him as much as he can. He slips his finger carefully in to the second knuckle, then pulls back, and watches Sherlock draw a sharp breath at the first movement, wince at the second._ _

__“Unlike some people,” he answers, and splays his hand across Sherlock’s hip and side, possessive and steadying both, “I have patience.”_ _

__“Not patient,” Sherlock tries to correct. “You get off on being in control.”_ _

__“And you get off,” John reminds him, stretching up to give him a kiss, light but insistent, mouth barely opening against mouth, “on me being in control.” On the last word, he slides his finger in the rest of the way, and Sherlock, almost jumping at the sensation, can only nod his answer._ _

__“Talk to me, Sherlock,” John commands. His tone isn’t harsh but it’s definite, decided; there is no question there that Sherlock might not obey. “Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I’m making you feel.”_ _

__“Frustrated,” he breathes. His eyes are closed tightly, the skin of his shoulders and chest flushed. “It’s—not enough. I can feel your finger moving…in and out of me. I remember when that would have been—too much. But I can take more now. I can—oh _fuck_ John.” This last is strained, almost choked, and cut off with a hard dirty kiss, all tongue and teeth and spit as John enters Sherlock again, two slicked fingers this time stretching him. John finds himself thinking of words like _attack_ and even _plunder_ , horrible romance-novel word that it is, and he is purposefully rough now, rough and fast and eager. He fucks Sherlock with his two fingers, quick deep thrusts of them as he thinks of his own cock buried in that tight hot flesh, and oh how it will feel, and oh the noises Sherlock will make, pushing back into him, grabbing the cushions of the couch in a white-knuckled grip. _ _

__The fantasy threatens to overtake him, and he slows his own pace, breaks their kiss. Sherlock leans forward again and licks John’s lips. John had expected he would complain. He usually does. But his gesture is sweet and his smile sincere. “That’s—um—good. That’s good,” he says, in a voice that was probably supposed to be audible, but comes out a soft whisper instead. “Keep going.”_ _

__Usually John would swat Sherlock on the arse for a comment like that, for forgetting who makes the rules when they’re in bed (or on the couch, or against the refrigerator, or on the floor—or wherever—when they’re _like this_ ). But it was part of their deal that Sherlock give directions this time, and if anything, they’ve been ignoring the agreement too much these last few minutes._ _

__“Like this?” he asks instead, and starts to scissor his fingers slightly, slowly urging the muscle loose._ _

__“Ye—yes.”_ _

__“Good. Tell me what you’re thinking.”_ _

__“’M thinking about you inside me,” Sherlock gasps. He’s moving now, as best as he can, slowly fucking himself on John’s fingers. In another circumstance John might be strict about this, too, might tell him to stop or he gets nothing, bad boy, but he decides to be lenient this time. He’s certainly teased Sherlock plenty, and anyway the sight of him wriggling so desperately, the penetration never deep enough, never quite what he wants, is so wanton and filthy and stunning that John can’t bring himself to make it stop._ _

__“My fingers inside you?” he prompts, as he grazes the fingers of his other hand across Sherlock’s stomach._ _

__“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock answers. He manages to sound disdainful even through gritted teeth. “I’m thinking—thinking of your cock in me. Moving in me. Cl—claiming me.”_ _

__Sherlock only uses words like these— _claim, own, yours_ —when he’s really gone, when he’s lost in that hazy lust-dark place where everything is sensation and want and—“and you” he’d explained it once—“everything else fades out and it’s just my body and your body and…you.” John doesn’t have Sherlock’s memory, nowhere near, but he has those words, the cadence of Sherlock’s voice as he’d said them, so carefully memorized that he can recall them just so even now. He brings them forward, mixes the memory of them with the sensation of Sherlock’s lips kissing his temple and into his hair, his hot breath, his sweaty limbs, and slowly he draws his two fingers from Sherlock’s body and presses back with three. Sherlock shudders above him and moans, low and needy._ _

__“It’s not all you’re thinking, though, is it?” John whispers to him. “I didn’t turn the skull away, Sherlock. You noticed when you came in. I know you did, because you’re so brilliant at noticing. You see all the details.” He gives Sherlock’s ear a light, affectionate nip, smiles at the soft _mmm_ ing noise Sherlock makes in return. “You know it’s there looking at us,” John continues, “and you like that. You like thinking about it watching you. I’d ask you to tell me what it sees but I don’t expect you to be capable of words right at the moment—” He moves his fingers suddenly wider, deeper, and feels Sherlock’s grip around him tighten, nails into the skin of his back. “So I’ll just tell you, instead, okay? Right now that skull is watching you impaled on my fingers, stretched out around them, full with them. It’s watching me finger you open right now, Sherlock. Watching me prepare you to take my cock.”_ _

__Sherlock makes unintelligible noises into John’s shoulder, noises that are perhaps approval, perhaps just neediness and desire, hot breath noises followed by rough tongue kisses and surprisingly hard bites into the skin of John’s neck and chest. He’s holding onto John with both arms wrapped around him, a man trying not to drown._ _

__“Do you think you’re ready, Sherlock?” John asks him. He hardens his voice this time, a command as much as a question; he can’t have Sherlock drifting too far away from him, not now. “Ready to take me? Hmmm? Look at me when you answer.”_ _

__Sherlock’s long spider limbs unwrap from him slowly, shakily. He drags his hands up to John’s shoulder, lets one climb higher to pull through the short hairs at the back of John’s neck. At first John thinks he is merely letting his touch wander, but soon he realizes that Sherlock is holding his head still, is forcing his gaze to meet Sherlock’s own, a command to rival John’s command. His eyes are grey-green and so utterly beautiful that they completely erase every thought from John’s mind._ _

__He leans forward and kisses Sherlock once, sweetly, against his lips._ _

__When he pulls away, Sherlock whispers to him, “I am more than ready, John.”_ _

__John flicks his gaze down to his cock, so long untouched; it strains up against his stomach. “Good,” he says. He realizes that he’s a bit breathless. “So am I. How do you want it?”_ _

__Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, and John’s not sure if he’s thinking, or if the answer is supposed to be obvious, as it always is to Sherlock’s mind. He takes advantage of the pause anyway, to lean forward and murmur into Sherlock’s ear, “You know, if we had a real visitor, I’d ask him to choose. How he wants to see you.”_ _

__“See us,” Sherlock corrects, and then—really, John thinks, if they keep kissing like this, distracting themselves, they’ll never get anywhere._ _

__“Mmmmf,” he says, and “ah,” and “hmmmmg,” into the tiny space between his lips and Sherlock’s, and then, when Sherlock finally pulls back enough for full sentences to form, “Okay. Time limit for decision making is expired. Stand up.”_ _

__Sherlock obeys without question, and if his legs are shaky as he stands, John’s are all the more so for the time he spent trapped beneath Sherlock’s weight. He takes a few moments to steady himself. Stretches a bit. Passes his hand across his eyes. When he opens them again, Sherlock has climbed onto the couch on his knees, leaning forward with his legs spread and his arse up, and John almost loses his balance again._ _

__“Perfect,” he says. His voice is quiet and awed. Usually when people use the word, it’s hyperbole, but this, Sherlock like this, no, it is honestly, purely, _perfect_. “Just how I was going to put you.”_ _

__“Obviously,” Sherlock answers._ _

__John slaps him once across the arse as punishment for mocking. “Such cheek.”_ _

__He takes a moment, then, just to admire the view. Runs his hand down Sherlock’s back, around to his stomach, across his sides, follows the curve of his bum to the tops of his thighs. “So you get off on being looked at,” he says, and is surprised at how conversational his voice sounds, when the voice inside that’s just screaming at him to fuck this gorgeous man already is getting louder and louder each moment. Sherlock groans out his name, half plea and half reproach, but he ignores it. “Hand me the condom and the lube,” he orders, and Sherlock obeys, scrambling for the condom in the couch cushions for a moment and then all but pushing it and the half-empty tube into John’s hands. “You like it when I look at you,” he continues, tearing open the packet, sliding on the condom, then slicking his cock with lube and coating the excess around his fingers, and all the while watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t you Sherlock?”_ _

__“Oh, was that a question? Didn’t realize. Yes, John, I like it, what are you _doing_ back there—?”_ _

__“Nope, eyes forward, Sherlock. Be patient.”_ _

__“I’ve _been_ patient—”_ _

__“ _Sherlock_.”_ _

__He manages, by John’s count, to keep his mouth shut for eight seconds. Then—_ _

__“Yes, _Captain_ Watson.”_ _

__John slides his two fingers into Sherlock, two knuckles deep, then gives them a sudden twist. The sound Sherlock makes in response is gorgeous, surprise and arousal and need, a low guttural moan. He smiles to himself. He works his fingers in and out again, making Sherlock’s breath and hips stutter without rhythm. “Is this—” Sherlock tries, “really necessary? I’m—open.”_ _

__“I know,” John admits, and takes his fingers away. He lines his cock up with Sherlock’s entrance. Closes his eyes. Imagines there are eyes on him. He finds it disconcerting and, even, a little nerve-wracking. If anything, the fantasy might help to take away the edge, and allow him to last more than two seconds once he finally pushes in to that wonderful familiar tight heat. He starts to press forward. Opens his eyes again as he does._ _

__Sherlock is making staccato _mmmm hmmmm ermm ooh_ noises as John’s cock slowly disappears inside him. John draws the moment out, not only because the sounds Sherlock’s making are so filthy and needy and brilliant, but because the sight of part of his body vanishing into Sherlock’s body is so incredible to watch. He wants to tell Sherlock about it, wants to describe it, but all he comes up with is to say is, “Fuck,” and “Sherlock,” and “ _Wish_ you could see what I see.”_ _

__“Tell me,” Sherlock answers. He’s dropped one hand down to pull at his own cock, slow but forceful jerks of his hand that must be keeping him just short of the edge, in no danger of falling. “Tell me, John—how we look.”_ _

__John can’t do much more than moan in answer, fully inside Sherlock now and oh _fuck_ if he moves he’ll come. He lets his fingers sweep across Sherlock’s side and his lower back, resting the tips of three fingers there just to the side of his hip as he pulls out, still moving slowly, still afraid to move too fast. “How we look,” he whispers. “How we—you and your…unfair body, Sherlock, bent over and legs spread for me, how you want me—I’m so…goddamn _lucky_. Want you so much.”_ _

__“You have me,” Sherlock tells him, and John’s not sure if he’s correcting or reassuring, the words almost overwhelmed by a moan when John starts to push his hips forward again._ _

__“I do. I have you. Every bit of you, you’re—so—long—don’t laugh—”_ _

__“I’m not. Tell me—”_ _

__“You just go on forever…always so graceful, so controlled…and you just bend over for me…so—inviting.” He finds a measured rhythm of slow, deep thrusts, pulling out almost completely before he pushes in again. “I love that you’re like this for me. No one else. Even—if someone watched—he’d have to know you’re mine. He’d watch me…fucking you…and he’d know…know you’re mine.”_ _

__“Yours, John,” Sherlock stutters, as he tries to readjust his stance and push back. “Only yours.”_ _

__John stills his movements with a warning hand at the small of his back. “Hey, hey. Easy. I control the pace,” he tells him. “At least for now.” He pulls out again, only the very tip of his cock still inside, and leans back as far as he can to enjoy the view. He can see Sherlock’s hands gripping the back of the couch, glances down and sees his toes curling against the floor, but he’s being good, so good, not even asking for more, not telling John what to do. John runs a soothing hand down his side and over the curve of his bum. He pushes forward again, watching as his flesh slides into Sherlock’s flesh, disappears into him, and it feels so _good_ , beyond words good, looks so remarkable, too, that for a moment he loses himself and tilts his head back and closes his eyes and sighs, out, “Ah, fuck Sherlock,” before he snaps his gaze downward again. “The way you just _take_ me. It’s incredible.”_ _

__“Fantastic,” Sherlock says, with a huff of air that might be a laugh._ _

__“Amazing,” John continues. “How we connect. How we—look like one person. I _really_ wish you could see what I’m seeing.”_ _

__“Doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, a movement as if to shake the hair from his eyes, but it only throws his curls into a worse disorder. “Want _you_ to see.” He cranes his neck now, peering awkwardly over his shoulder at John as he increases his pace, fucking harder into Sherlock now just to see the way his body snaps forward under the pressure, the way the expression around his eyes changes at the sudden harsh movement. The noises that John is sure Sherlock’s been holding in all this time start to tear from his throat now, muffled and stifled _mm_ s and _oh_ s and then something that sounds like a series of _ah_ s working into a crescendo, and somewhere around the first _oooohaaa-mmm >/i>, Sherlock turns forward again and bends his head down, straightens his arms and pushes his body back into John’s body and the sight of him like this, oh yes this, it should be illegal for the things it does to John. He pulls back and then slams forward again, repeats the gesture, pulling Sherlock’s hips back in the same movement, forcing hard deep thrusts that raise the volume on Sherlock’s groans and make him feel more animal than human and it’s fucking _stunning_ , those moments.__ _

___He gets his breath back with difficulty. He feels too far away, suddenly, so distant from Sherlock, and this a ridiculous thought—they are _joined_ but no, he wants—he wants—he pushes in deep, balls resting against the curve of Sherlock’s arse, as deep as he can possibly be, and leans forward. “Come here,” he whispers. “Come here,” and Sherlock’s too lost to argue that this is a stupid command, he only makes low noises made up of _m_ ’s and _n_ ’s, and he lets John press his stomach and chest against Sherlock’s back. John reaches out one hand to brace his fingertips against the couch back, he can just barely reach, it requires some readjustment, some standing on toes, and with his other hand, he slides two fingers under Sherlock’s chin and directs him to turn. They don’t quite manage a kiss but it is a meeting of lips, sloppy and wet and spit-slick, fumbling, grasping, somehow sweet._ _ _

___“You have to really fuck me now, John,” Sherlock murmurs against his lips. “Make me come.”_ _ _

___John wraps his left arm around Sherlock’s torso, slides his palm down his chest and stomach and through the curls of pubic hair below, and when he reaches Sherlock’s prick, he wraps his hand around it. He gives it two quick jerks. This time Sherlock picks from his grab bag of letter sounds a breathy _h_ , several _n_ ’s, and the slightest touch of a _g_. John smirks and kisses his shoulder._ _ _

___“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” he says._ _ _

___“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock urges. “Please.”_ _ _

___“Love it when you’re polite,” John says, the words slurring low and rough as he breathes them out. He straightens again, gets a firm grip on Sherlock’s hips and snaps his own hips forward. The almost pained sound that escapes Sherlock’s lips tells him clearly enough he’s hit just the right spot, and he repeats the motion, and again, until Sherlock is begging him incoherently, until the sensation is so intense that it borders on pain._ _ _

___“Uh—Sherlock—you’re gonna look so—gorgeous when you come. Always do. The way your body stretches. Your head tilts back. And the—sounds you make—fuck. Yes. Touch yourself, come on, come for me.”_ _ _

___“So close, John—so—”_ _ _

___“I’m watching you, Sherlock. It’s just me—but you have my complete—undivided—attention.” He punctuates these last words with hard, deep, thrusts. “I see all of you. Your hair—your neck—your spine—your body with mine. Love every bit of you.”_ _ _

___“Love?”_ _ _

___Sherlock’s voice sounds, somehow, very small._ _ _

___“Of course.”_ _ _

___John doesn’t know if it’s the movements he’s making, or the words, or just that one word, or a combination of them all but he feels Sherlock’s body seize, feels from the inside the way Sherlock tightens, and he sees Sherlock’s body contort into that perfect geometry, those impossible angles even his addled brain knows it’s a privilege to observe, and he hears that certain low aching groan that is half strained _yesyes_ and half __JOHN__ , and then Sherlock’s body all but collapses onto the couch. He keeps himself upright just long enough for John to reach that same place, his whole body, his whole being focusing and gathering, higher and higher to that thin perfect point and then he is spilling over, everything white and clear and he knows nothing, nothing, only Sherlock, yes, his Sherlock, _his_._ _ _

___They disentangle their bodies gingerly. John’s brain still feels fuzzy and slow, and he moves like an old man, his arms and legs stiff and noncompliant. Somehow he manages to straighten his body, roll back his shoulders, regain his breath. The soft and satisfied feeling of afterglow is stealing over him now, making him feel drained but content, ready to stretch his sore body over clean sheets and new pillows and sleep._ _ _

___He pulls of the condom as carefully as he can, knots it, aims for the bin and misses and doesn’t care. This takes the absolute last of his energy, and he falls on the couch gracelessly._ _ _

___“We’ll have to wash those stains out of the sofa,” Sherlock says, dully, from where he’s sprawled out next to John on the cushions. “Again.”_ _ _

___John waves the problem away with one lazy gesture of his hand through the air. “Later,” he mumbles. Then he glances sideways at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes meet his. They both giggle, but only for a moment, the laughter burning itself out quickly in their exhaustion._ _ _

___Sherlock lets out a long, exaggerated groan as he pulls himself up to his feet. John enjoys the sight of him standing, his naked back and arse and legs, but doesn’t make any effort to get up in turn. When Sherlock shakes his limbs out like some overgrown animal and says, “Hmmmmm need a shower,” John just answers, “Join you in a minute.”_ _ _

___He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, enjoying the moment, the quiet of it, his own exhaustion. After a few moments, he hears the sounds of water rushing through pipes. When he opens his eyes, his gaze falls, probably by chance, on the skull on the mantelpiece. It’s still turned to face the couch, and it seems to be staring at him, its wide black eyeless sockets unblinking._ _ _

___“So did you enjoy the show?” he asks._ _ _

___The skull doesn’t answer, and the number of seconds that pass before John realizes why makes him feel terribly silly._ _ _

___He forces himself upright and pads down the hall to the bathroom. Sherlock’s left the door cracked open, so John pushes it the rest of the way in without knocking, then closes it behind him. The room is already cluttered with steam. “What is this obsession you have with taking inhumanly hot showers?” he asks as he slips in behind Sherlock, who is standing, at the moment, facing away from the spray and with his head tipped back, water flattening his curls against his scalp._ _ _

___“Not an obsession,” he answers. “I just like it.”_ _ _

___“It uses up the hot water faster,” John argues._ _ _

___“Well then you’ll have to be quick.”_ _ _

___There’s not much room in the shower, not for the both of them, and struggling on a slippery surface is a sort of danger that neither finds appealing, so they switch positions carefully and without debate. Sherlock shakes his head, splattering drops of water against the shower curtain and bathroom wall, and wipes the excess stream out of his eyes. John braves the scalding water just long enough to adjust the tap and make it bearable._ _ _

___For several moments, they’re both silent._ _ _

___Then, spray hitting his chest and his stomach and his legs, a feeling of clean slipping over him, Sherlock behind him running his hands across John’s shoulders and back and waist, he asks, “Is that something you really want? An audience?”_ _ _

___“Always. Genius always wants an audience.”_ _ _

___“So do show-offs. But that’s not what I meant and you know it.”_ _ _

___Sherlock sighs, and then leans down to press his open mouth against John’s good shoulder. He slides his lips together slowly into the shape of a kiss, dragging them along John’s skin as he does. Then he buries his nose in John’s neck. It can’t be comfortable, the spray hitting him in the face in this position, but it’s lovely for John, Sherlock’s body pressed close against his back and his arms wrapped around John’s waist. “It is something I want,” Sherlock admits quietly. “But it isn’t something you want.”_ _ _

___“I’d get self-conscious if there were a real person watching,” John answers. “I don’t mind the skull as a compromise, though.”_ _ _

___“I thought you hated the skull.”_ _ _

___John turns, an awkward and dangerous manoeuvre that leaves him with a mouthful of hot water and a need to blink his eyes incessantly for several moments, but when he’s recovered, he’s in a perfect position to give Sherlock a kiss. Water slides down John’s face and gets in their mouths. It is rather uncomfortable. Sherlock turns them around, almost slips twice, and they end up with John’s back pressed against the bathroom wall and the water a slight spray now in the background, drumming noisily against the bottom and sides of the bathtub and barely flecking up against their skin._ _ _

___“Did I seem like I hated it today?” John asks, when Sherlock finally pulls away to breathe._ _ _

___“No,” Sherlock admits._ _ _

___John smiles and licks the water from his cheek. “Shower’s getting cold already. I think I’m clean enough though. You?”_ _ _

___“Suppose so.”_ _ _

___John picks up on the underlying tone of distraction in Sherlock’s voice, the slightly delayed movements of his limbs, but he doesn’t remark on any of it until they’ve shut off the water, climbed carefully from the tub, and wrapped themselves in towels. Then he asks lightly, “Something on your mind?”_ _ _

___“Usually,” Sherlock murmurs. He wraps his towel around his shoulders and sits lightly on the edge of the bathtub, balancing on the lip with his legs braced. He doesn’t look the way he looks when he’s searching through evidence, when he’s making deductions or decisions or constructing theories. He looks rather like he does when he’s nervous, that awkward introverted expression on his face, the not quite graceful arrangement of his limbs, and John watches him, feels grateful for him, for this, this part of him that so few other people see._ _ _

___Sherlock mumbles something to the floor._ _ _

___“Sorry, what? I didn’t catch that.”_ _ _

___“I said that I like it when you tell me you love me,” Sherlock repeats sharply, a scowl that should be ugly, but isn’t, twisting up his mouth. “You do know how I hate to repeat myself, John.”_ _ _

___“I do know,” John answers. Then he kneels on the floor at Sherlock’s feet, between his legs. The idea for the action comes to him suddenly, and it isn’t sexual and it isn’t pleading, it’s just a desire for closeness, in this cramped and stuffy bathroom thick with steam, hazardous with slippery floors and sharp corners. He indulges in the look of surprise that crosses over Sherlock’s face._ _ _

___“What are you doing?” he asks. “You aren’t going to _propose_ or anything mundane like that, are you?”_ _ _

___Only Sherlock would think that proposing marriage while naked in the bathroom was mundane, but John doesn’t say so. He just leans down and kisses the side of Sherlock’s knee. “No,” he says. “I’m just feeling romantic, I guess, in that…post-sex way.”_ _ _

___“You have odd ideas of romance, John Watson,” Sherlock mumbles, voice low, almost unintelligible, but fond. He runs his fingers through John’s hair, finally resting his palm against the back of John’s neck._ _ _

___“Says the man whose idea of the perfect first date involved stalking a jewellery thief halfway across London, eating takeaway over paperwork with Lestrade, and then snogging in his office, with the door unlocked, when he stepped out for more coffee.”_ _ _

___Sherlock’s touch, his fingers skritching through the short hairs above where John’s collar would be, becomes, for a moment, uncertain. “I thought you enjoyed that date,” he says._ _ _

___“I loved it,” John answers, and turns his head just enough to give the inside of Sherlock’s arm a slight, soft kiss. “I loved it, and I love you.”_ _ _

___Sherlock’s cheeks, already pink from the heat and the steam, darken slightly, and the tiniest smile upturns the corners of his lips. “I love you, too.”_ _ _


End file.
